


This is what it was like

by EtoileGarden



Category: Queen's Thief - Fandom, The Queen's Thief, Thick as Thieves - Fandom
Genre: Drabble, POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 16:03:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11165265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtoileGarden/pseuds/EtoileGarden
Summary: A short piece on Costis' thoughts in the well





	This is what it was like

This is what it was like.   
Down in the well.   
Where the smell of dog went from distasteful musk to putrescent overnight. 

I fell and I did not fall.   
I watched myself fall from the top of the well, peering into the darkness below as my face disappeared into the gloom.   
I heard myself land, me on top of the dog.  
The ground and I killing it instantly between us.   
I felt the air in my shirt, the drop of my stomach.   
There was a voice in my ear that spoke at first in a language strange to me, and then not at all strange.   
It told me that I would not fall, told me that I had fell, told me I have never stopped falling. 

The bottom of the well is as dry and dusty as the ground above me, and our landing stirred the dust in the putrid air. I do not cough. 

The voice is still in my ear, it tells me, never doubt that you fell, it tells me, never doubt that I will catch you when you fall, it tells me, you fell and you did not fall. 

There is dust in my lungs, smell of rot in my nose, despair in my heart. I repeat the words that were spoken to me, not daring to let them pass my lips for fear of the miller, just echoing them in my mind.   
If I had fell, yet not fallen, then surely I would leave this pit. 

My sureness fades with the light in the sky, with the noise of the day.   
I am still falling, I tell myself, when I land there will be hope. 

After I have tried, tried, tried unsuccessfully and as quietly as possible, to climb out of the well, I curl around myself, press my face into the coolness of the well wall, and try to sleep. 

When sleep finally comes, it is the sort that leaves a most disgusting taste in your mouth, not helped by the putrid flour and the stench of dog. I wake with every crack of twigs above me, every murmur of voice, every foot-fall. 

When the day breaks, dribbling light weakly down into my cell, I desperately remind myself to have hope. 

I do not know if I want the miller and his men to attempt to pull mine and the dogs bodies out of the hole. Surely they do not want to leave us their to stink up their courtyard. Maybe they intend to simply pour dirt in over us when we start to stink, give up on the well for good. If they pulled us out then at least I would not die of starvation, although I doubted I would be allowed to live if they pulled me out. Still I thought that dying in a fight would be easier and certainly quicker than the alternative. Plus I wouldn’t have to sit and smell the dog rotting away.   
If I yelled out, someone would investigate.   
I am still falling, I tell myself.   
I bite my tongue, stop myself from recklessness. Yelling up at the light would have been so much easier, would have been less frightening than sitting here in the dark and uncertainty. 

In the back of my mind all my doubts spoke quietly -   
Kamet is dead.   
You will die.   
No one knows you are here but the miller.   
No one will come to pull you out.   
Kamet will not come back.   
You will die, and Kamet is dead. 

I close my eyes against the uncomfort of reality, and think instead of the underworld, with the gray souls and their gray food, and their unending misery.   
Of Ennikar who thought he was lost in the mist of it forever, of Immakuk who had thought he had lost his friend forever. Of how they anointed one another and escaped together. 

I pray, not for the first time since my arrival, that Kamet is alive and well. That Kamet will come back to me. That he has fondness enough for me to walk back into danger. I pray to my own gods, Eddisian and Attolian alike, and then I pray as well to Kamet’s gods. I pray to the memory of Immakuk and Ennikar.   
I pray that I am not praying into nothingness.   
Eugenides has not spoken to me again since I fell. I do not expect him to, but I still wait, wanting him to relieve my fears.   
I know that that is not a gods job. 

By the time the little sun I have seen has drifted away, my lips are chapped with thirst, my throat dry and dusty with the thick air around me. My stomach is a hard knot of hunger and worry, and all I can think about is the stench of death from the dog.   
I am drifting into an uneasy sleep when I hear soft movement above me. I think of caggi peering down at me, wonder if they would jump down to their deaths to investigate the smell. I think of the miller, passing by, perhaps planning on relieving his bladder. 

“Monsters of hell,” 

I think of all the prayers I had sent up, think of all the gods, wondered who had answered me. 

“Kamet?” I ask, unwilling to believe in my rescue just yet.   
“You’re alive?” Kamet is saying down at me, and I shake my head to myself, he sounds so shocked. Why would he have returned if he thought I was dead?  
“Of course I’m alive,” I reply, and I hear him huff before he speaks again.   
We argue, ridiculously and mindlessly for a few seconds more before he leaves again to find rope. I stand, bones aching with disuse and earth cold, staring up at the square of pale moonlight above me.   
As I wait I mumble words of gratitude to every god I can think of, not wanting to offend the one who had stepped in on my behalf. I am caught unaware when Kamet throws the rope directly onto my face, and I curse quietly, mostly out of shock.   
Before either Kamet or I could speak again, I hear a sickening thunk, and from where I stand I cannot tell if the blow that caused it landed on the rotting wood or on Kamet’s poor head.   
I grab the rope, listen as I hear the miller and Kamet above me, rotting wood then. My fingers are stiff and cold, my limbs not as strong as they ought to be, I pull myself out of the well as quickly as I can.   
I plan to draw my sword as soon as I have both feet on solid ground, to protect Kamet, but before I have chance to get my hands on it, the miller is staring at me as if I am a demon revealed.   
He drops his club, turns, runs wailing away, and I turn my confusion to Kamet. Kamet’s expression is surprisingly like that of the millers- shock, horror- I think he is going to cry, his face trembles as he reaches for me, brushing my hand hesitantly then grabbing onto my fingers. He makes a choking noise in his throat, and takes me by the arm to pull me away from my deep grave.   
I am not falling anymore, I have landed, and I have been found.


End file.
